My old pa used to walk with a bit of a limp. Got it while out branding some horses, got into a foul and the horse kicked him. It gave him a hunch and a bum leg but it never slowed him down, no. He just kept on going, kept on riding.
I remembered that when I saw Heath out on the corner lot, coming back in one evening. He had just made his arrival at the Barkley ranch. I tried to keep my distance from him. It was still kind of strange, you know, the way he just popped up outta no where and said he was my brother. But he came out with that limp, told one of the men that a mustang he was tryin' to break kicked him. It was like seeing my pa walking out there. In broad daylight.
Then there was the way he did stupid, simple stuff. That boy made his bed every morning and made sure his face was clean when he came down to supper. Do you know how long it took Mother to beat that into my head? And what's the point of making up your bed if you're just gonna get back into it, tired, sore and cramped up?
By the way, that's the way Heath falls asleep. Just down and out, like a timber fell there and rotted away.
Like my pa. All like my pa.
Boy can sing too. You should hear him, out there in the fields, where there ain't a tree for miles and all you've got is the sky and the animal beneath you, the noonday sun burning up your neck, making you sweat a river. I reckon he didn't know I could hear him, I was far away at the time, rounding up some cattle. Sound does something strange out there, it moves fast.
My pa used to sing like that. Like it wasn't a big fuss, no need to tune up beforehand but no need to sound like a church choir. Quiet and alone.
Heath sang something in Spanish, I think.
It took days and days, and I don't think – well, I hope he didn't notice, but I watched him like a hawk. Started out thinking he would get bored of ranch life, bored of being a Barkley but that boy came in, started taking the name for his own. He worked like there was no tomorrow, he took the beatings and the darned mockery of the whole town. They threw a punch at him and he got back up, a horse kicked him and he kept on riding. People laughed at him and said he was a no-good bastard or he was a cotton-picking liar, he just walked away from it. For a while Mother didn't know what to do with him and Audra acted like he was a piece of ice down her dress or something. Jarrod, he pretended he wasn't there, just acted nice and casual like. And me?
I beat the tarnation out of him, I worked him like a slave. I didn't want him and I told him so.
And he just kept getting up. When everyone was running a race against him, he just kept on going.
Just like my pa.
And when that all hit me, something in me broke, like when you finally beat some sense into a wild colt. He was the spitting image of my pa and there was no mistake about it, no matter what, the boy was my little brother and by heaven I wasn't gonna let him get run roughshod by those no-account fools. And I wasn't gonna let stupid things like time and different mothers get in the way of me having a little brother.
It ain't fair a good kid like Heath Barkley should get the short end of the stick because my pa, well, he made a mistake. A pretty bad one, now that I think of it, but it ain't Heath's fault he's here. You can't blame someone for being alive.
He deserves a good chance, as good as anyone.
And someday, I reckon I'll tell him. Tell him how much he looks like my pa.